She Stole Our Daughter's Ambulance

I was crawling along the Interstate with my four-year-old daughter during the holiday rush when the local channel on my navigation app pinged with an incoming voice note: "Come on, fellas, help a brother out. Anyone got lemon-flavored? My wife won’t touch anything else." In the background, a woman’s breathy, petulant voice cut through the static: "Who told you to ask? God, that’s so embarrassing!" A cold shock raced to my fingertips. The laugh. The cadence. The unmistakable purr of her irritation. Why did she sound so sickeningly like Miranda? "It couldn't be," I told myself. Just yesterday morning, Miranda had kissed me goodbye on our front porch, claiming she was boarding a flight to Seattle for a three-day corporate retreat. She had even texted me a selfie when she supposedly touched down, captioning it: "Safe and missing you guys." I tightened my grip on the steering wheel, desperately trying to write it off as sensory exhaustion brought on by hours in bumper-to-bumper traffic. Then the group channel erupted into a chorus of jeers and bawdy replies: "Got a box in my glove compartment, pal, but at this rate? No way I’m selling." "We’re all sitting here rotting in traffic, and this guy’s turning his SUV into a honeymoon suite." The man’s voice chimed back in, smug and dripping with money: "A grand. A thousand bucks for one. How about it?" A second later, the woman spoke again, right by the mic: "Forget it, babe. If they don’t have it, we don't need it." My stomach dropped into a bottomless void. It was Miranda. There was zero doubt left in my mind. In the passenger seat, my daughter stirred against her booster cushion, her cheeks flushed with fever. Her small, glassy eyes fluttered open. "Daddy..." she whimpered, her voice cracked and dry. "I heard Mommy. I want Mommy." A tight, suffocating knot seized my throat. I smoothed her damp hair back and swallowed down the acid rising in my chest, whispering soothing lies until she drifted back into a restless sleep. Outside, dusk gave way to complete darkness. Ahead in the left lane, the sleek luxury SUV that had been inching along beside us finally fell still. The tinted driver-side window rolled halfway down. A pale, slender arm reached out into the cool night air to flick away an ash. Etched distinctly into the soft skin of her inner wrist was a tiny crescent moon. On our daughter’s first birthday, Miranda had practically dragged me to a boutique tattoo parlor. She got the moon; she insisted I get a single five-pointed star. "The star revolves around the moon," she had whispered into my neck that night, her eyes shining with fierce conviction. "Just like you, Adam. You'll always be the center that keeps me and our baby grounded." Now, her moon was shining in someone else’s sky. And my star, carrying the fragile little light beside me, would have to spin entirely out of her orbit. … I wasn’t the only one keeping tabs on that tinted SUV. The second the vehicle stopped rocking, the stranded motorists in the chat fired up again. "Hey, buddy, ten enough for ya? Just dug out three more boxes from my trunk. Still buying?" The man replied with an audio clip, thoroughly satisfied: "Appreciate it, man, but we're good. My wife's exhausted. Time for her to get some beauty sleep." The channel flooded with groans and mock outrage. "Must be nice." "Some guys have all the luck while the rest of us starve out here." I stared at the dashboard display, my knuckles turning white against the wheel. Next to me, Luna tossed violently in her seat, a dry whimper escaping her parched lips. I picked up the infrared thermometer and aimed it at her forehead: 102.6. The mini-cooler between the seats was down to lukewarm melted ice, and the travel pack of children’s liquid Tylenol had run bone-dry two hours ago. My fingers felt like lead as I typed a message into the local emergency thread: "Anyone have infant or children's fever reducer? My daughter is running a dangerously high fever. Will pay whatever." Almost the second my message went live, another voice note popped up. Miranda. "Anyone have fever meds? My husband just broke a massive sweat and I don't want him catching a chill. Looking to buy some just in case." A stranger chimed in with a laugh: "Already babying him? A guy sweating a little never killed nobody, sweetheart. He'll live." Miranda fired back immediately, her tone sharp and possessive: "Of course I baby my husband. If you’re jealous, go find a wife of your own." A few seconds later, another driver posted: "I’ve got an unopened bottle of Advil pills." My thumb trembled as I tapped the screen: "Please, sell it to me first. My little girl is burning up. Please." Before the text could even settle on the feed, Miranda’s voice cut in: "A thousand dollars for the bottle. We’ll take the whole thing." The chat went wild. "A grand for a bottle of Advil? Lady, you’re throwing down serious cash." I felt the blood drain from my face. I drew in a ragged breath and forced my shaking hands across the keys: "My daughter is genuinely sick. Could you please spare just two tablets? Just two. I can crush them for her." The response from Miranda arrived without hesitation: "Sorry, but I’m under no obligation to look after somebody else’s kid." "Besides, my husband gets jealous easily~" The group fell dead quiet for a long second. "Profile pic looks like a dude." "Gotta respect a loyal woman who keeps boundaries with random men on the road." A blinding ache clamped down behind my eyes. I stared at the screen until those words blurred into jagged shapes. "Somebody else’s kid." Miranda. That kid burning up five feet away from you is your own flesh and blood. Four years ago, Luna was born six weeks premature. She spent twenty-eight agonizing days hooked to monitors in the neonatal intensive care unit. Miranda hadn't slept a full night back then; she would wake up screaming from nightmares, dragging me out of bed at two in the morning just to stand by the incubator glass and watch the rhythmic rise and fall of Luna’s tiny chest. By the time they discharged us, Miranda had dark, hollow circles carved under her eyes. Holding our daughter on our living room sofa, she had wept until she choked on her own tears, swearing that if there were any pain or misfortune meant for our child, God should heap it all onto her instead. Watching her unravel, my heart had ached so deeply that I drove to our old church the next morning, kneeling alone in an empty pew, praying that whatever hardships were coming for my family, they would strike me first—so long as Miranda and our baby girl stayed safe. And now, she had looked at that same child's suffering and stamped it with the words: "Somebody else's kid." The man in the SUV dropped another voice note, his tone slick with smooth, cultured condescension: "Look, friend, I know you're in a tough spot." "Truth is, my wife is practically forcing me to take this stuff so I don't catch a cold. She won't take no for an answer, and I can't break her heart." "Tell you what, though—I'll ask around in a couple of private chats for you." It was a masterclass in performative courtesy: sounding reasonable and gentle to the audience while stepping right on our throats to secure what was mine. A private notification pinged at the bottom of my screen. Someone who couldn't stomach the spectacle had sent a direct message: "Hey man, I've got half a bottle in my console. Drop your car's make and color, and I'll walk a few tablets over to you on the shoulder. Keep it quiet." I typed back a frantic "Thank you so much." Ten minutes passed in silence. Then, a hesitant follow-up message popped up: "...Listen, man, I’m sorry. Somebody just DM’d me saying you’re running a scam using a sick kid to drum up sympathy, and that you were asking around for people's license plates. I really don't need any drama on my record. Good luck." My chest caved in. "A scam. Ulterior motives." That manipulative, underhanded phrasing had Bryce written all over it. Fury thrummed behind my ribs. I threw open the door, fully prepared to drag him out into the asphalt, when the sea of red brake lights ahead finally flickered and began to crawl forward. I slammed the door shut, turned the ignition, and eased the car into gear. Luna needed medicine more than I needed blood. Fifteen agonizing minutes later, the blue-and-white signs for a highway travel plaza rose out of the dark. I pulled into the rest area, rushed Luna into the family restroom to wipe her burning neck down with damp paper towels, and sprinted straight to the convenience-pharmacy counter. By sheer luck, they had a single box of children's liquid suspension left. I measured the dose and coaxed it down her dry throat. She swallowed, wheezing softly, her small hands tugging at my shirt as she mumbled about needing cold water. The rest stop was teeming with travelers, and with her immune system bottoming out, the last thing she needed was another viral exposure. I pulled a pediatric mask over her flushed nose and mouth, put on my own, and carried her in my arms toward the market aisles. I was reaching down into the refrigerated beverage cooler when the entrance chimes trilled. A young man stepped through the automatic sliding doors. It was Bryce. Miranda’s personal executive assistant, hired two years ago. His right arm was set in a pristine white cast, held against his chest by an orthopedic sling. Tied securely around the plaster was a pale-blue silk scarf. Our fifth-anniversary gift to Miranda. There had been a tiny snag near the bottom hem—Luna had accidentally caught it with a zipper pull yesterday morning. While Miranda was in the shower, I had taken a spool of silver thread and sewn a tiny constellation of seed pearls over the blemish, shaping it into a miniature crescent moon. Now, that pearl-stitched moon was draped over Bryce’s forearm. Miranda was notoriously obsessive about her wardrobe. Her dresses had to be steamed to immaculate perfection. Every fabric, every shade, meticulously curated. She never allowed anyone outside our home to touch her personal pieces, let alone wrap a bespoke silk scarf around a stranger’s injured wrist. Bryce leaned against the doorframe, a sleek phone pressed to his ear, his voice dipped in honeyed intimacy: "I hear you, babe. I’m only using my left hand, I swear." "Stay in the car, alright? You're four months along—the last thing I need is my girl overexerting herself." "Smash." The heavy glass water bottle slipped through my fingers, shattering against the linoleum. Luna blinked up at me from my shoulder. "Daddy?" Bryce turned at the noise. His eyes swept over me, lingering for a fraction of a second on the bridge of my nose above the dark surgical mask. A strange flicker passed through his pupils, gone before I could name it. Then his gaze shifted downward to Luna. "Well, aren't you a sweet little thing," he said, stepping closer. A polite, practiced smile spread across his lips as he leaned down. "My lady has a little princess growing in her belly right now, too." "I hope our baby girl turns out just as pretty as you." Sick as she was, Luna managed a faint, polite smile. "Your princess is gonna be way prettier than me, mister... You should go back to her. Being sick in your tummy feels really bad." Then, Luna’s eyes caught on the pale silk tied to his sling. "Mister... my mommy has a scarf just like—" I caught her small wrist, squeezing gently. "Excuse us. My daughter is running a fever and isn't feeling well." Bryce immediately wrinkled his nose, lifting a hand to cover his face as he took two deliberate steps backward. His linen cuff rode up. Resting against his left wrist was a polished platinum bracelet, set with interlocking pavé diamonds. "The "Endless Orbit" series." Designed by Miranda six months ago as the crown jewel of her luxury fine jewelry line. I had fallen in love with that prototype the moment she sketched it. On my thirty-second birthday, I had smiled and asked her: "Any chance I could get the matching band with the North Star clasp?" Miranda had laughed, brushing a kiss against my cheek: "Babe, that’s a bespoke commission for an international private client. Replicating the design violates an exclusive non-disclosure agreement. Once this quarter wraps up, I'll design something even better just for you." That quarter had stretched into six months of endless late nights and closed-door meetings. The promise of my bracelet had dissolved into thin air. Yet there it was, gleaming in the fluorescent lights of a rest-stop convenience store, wrapped around Bryce’s wrist. The entrance chime chimed again. "Bryce—" Luna’s eyes lit up instantly. She twisted around in my grip. "Mommy—" I slapped my hand over her mouth and ducked behind a towering metal rack of snacks, my heart hammering against my ribs like a caged beast. Every instinct screamed at me to step out into the aisle and tear the mask off her clean, curated double life. "Do it," the fury roared. "Break the glass." But Luna was trembling against my chest, burning like a furnace, her breath coming in shallow, shuddering gasps. A public, screaming confrontation would shatter whatever fragile stability she had left. If she saw her mother tangled up with another man while she was choking on a fever, that image would poison her heart for the rest of her life. I ground my teeth together, pressing my shoulder blades hard against the cold shelf brackets. "Hold it together," I commanded myself. "The medicine is in her. Just hold out until the next exit, get her to an emergency room, and let the doctors stabilize her. The world can burn later." Through the gaps in the wire shelving, I watched Miranda approach him. The look on her face struck me like a physical blow. It was an expression of pure, unadulterated devotion. The soft, terrified tenderness in her eyes—I hadn't seen her look at anyone that way since she stood across from me at the altar seven years ago. "Babe, what are you doing out here?" Bryce murmured, his good arm sliding effortlessly around her waist. "You're nearly four and a half months. You have to think about the baby." Miranda leaned into him, her lips curving into a soft pout. "Are you worried about me, or just worried about our baby?" Bryce dipped his head, whispering low against her temple: "You come first. Always." He reached out, pulling the collar of her wool coat tighter against the draft of the door. The gesture was practiced, domestic, born of a routine that had been repeated hundreds of times behind my back. Luna squirmed in my arms, her muffled voice pressing against my palm: "Daddy... it's Mommy... Mommy's right over there..." I held her tighter, pulling back into the shadows until the chill of the back wall seeped into my spine. My mind was a screaming void. The moment I got Luna buckled back into her car seat, my phone buzzed with an alert from the local highway group chat. A grainy, five-second video had been uploaded. It was a clip taken from inside the market: me holding Luna by the cooler. Bryce had posted it, accompanied by a cold, righteous caption: "To the gentleman in this video: I strongly suggest you return the bespoke diamond bracelet you lifted from me." "It was custom-designed by my wife. It is literally one of a kind, and it means the world to me." "Did you bring your sick child into the store purely as a decoy to catch people off guard? If so, I have to admit, it worked brilliantly." He hadn't named me outright, but by pointing out the feverish little girl in my arms, every finger in the chat swung directly toward us. The comments rolled in like a pack of wolves: "Scumbag move. Using a kid to pick pockets?" "Unbelievable. What is wrong with people these days?" I stared at the screen, my vision tunneling as I tried to craft a response. Then, Miranda’s handle appeared on the thread: "You have ten minutes to bring it back." "After that, I'm calling the state troopers." The sheer cruelty of those two sentences made my blood run ice-cold. I took a slow, deliberate breath, forced my thumbs steady, and typed out my reply: "That is me and my daughter in the video, but I haven't stolen a damn thing." "Check the register timestamps: I entered the market to buy water before this man even walked through the door. I have the receipts, the security footage will show the angles, and my child's medical condition is verifiable." "Accusing someone without evidence is slander. Call the police. I welcome them." "And when you're proven wrong, expect a lawsuit for criminal defamation." The chat suddenly went dead quiet. A minute later, someone else ventured a message: "Honestly, without solid proof, you can't just blast a guy." "Being in the same aisle doesn't make him a thief." "And with a sick kid in his arms? Doesn't make sense." Bryce didn't post another word. I thought the absurdity had burned itself out. Ten minutes later, a black SUV slammed its brakes across my front bumper, cutting off my exit. Three burly men in matching dark jackets piled out, marching toward my driver-side window with terrifying efficiency. Before I could hit the door lock, the handle was wrenched open from the outside. A heavy hand seized my collar. "Get out." "What the hell are you doing—" I was dragged violently out into the gravel. The sudden jerk woke Luna. The sight of three massive strangers manhandling me triggered an immediate, terrified wail. "Daddy! Daddy!" One of the men reached into the back, unbuckling her and roughly hauling her out onto the pavement. "Don't you dare touch my daughter!" I roared, throwing a wild right hook that caught the closest guard squarely on the jaw. He staggered, but the other two were already on me. A pair of heavy blows landed against my ribs and the side of my face, driving the air from my lungs. My knees buckled, and they pinned me face-down against the asphalt. A small crowd of stranded travelers began to form a cautious perimeter. "Somebody call the police!" I shouted, scraping my knuckles across the road as I tried to claw my way up. "I'm calling the troopers!" A heavy boot came down on my wrist, kicking the phone from my hand. The screen shattered against the curb, cutting off the emergency tone mid-dial. In the crowd, a bystander raised their smartphone to record. One of Bryce’s men lunged toward them; the bystander tucked their phone into their jacket and vanished into the mob. I was completely cut off. All I could hear was Luna’s frantic, ragged sobbing, her little voice dropping into hoarse, terrified gasps: "Daddy... Daddy..." The men systematically tore through my car. They ripped up the seat cushions, emptied the glove compartment across the floor mats, popped the trunk, and dumped our suitcases out onto the dirty tarmac. Luna’s formula container was kicked aside, bursting open in the dust; her favorite security blanket was trampled under their boots. Luna wept until she choked, her small face turning an alarming shade of mottled purple. I dragged myself across the gravel on my elbows, pulling her trembling body into my arms and shielding her head. The lead security guard walked back toward Bryce, shaking his head. "Mr. Keaton, nothing. He doesn't have it." "Really? Huh. Maybe I dropped it somewhere else..." Bryce muttered, turning on his heel to leave. "Stop right there!" I surged to my feet, grabbing him by the shoulder. "You staged a robbery, trashed my vehicle, and traumatized my sick child!" I spat, blood welling inside my cheek. "You don't walk away from this without an apology!" He spun around, easily shrugging off my weakened grip. "All that proves is that you're smart enough to hand it off to an accomplice the second you walked outside." Bryce stepped closer, his voice dropping to a vicious, quiet purr that only I could hear: "You wore a mask in that store, buddy, but I saw your eyes. You were staring at my bracelet like you were starving for it. Everyone could see how badly you wanted it." He smirked, leaning in. "Too bad it’s mine. No matter how much you drool over it... Miranda is never giving one to you." A cold stillness washed over me. I stared into his gloating eyes. "He knew." He had known who I was the entire time. "Bryce? What's going on over here?" Miranda’s voice drifted over the murmur of the crowd as she walked over. The mask still covered the lower half of my face. My right eye was swollen half-shut from the punch, and blood was smeared across my forehead and jaw. I was bruised, disheveled, unrecognizable. Her eyes swept over me with cold indifference. She didn't register a single feature. I opened my mouth to speak. Before a sound could escape my lips, Bryce balled his left fist and drove it hard into my bruised cheek. "Miranda, I know this piece of trash took the bracelet," Bryce panted, wincing theatrically as he cradled his cast. "He won't confess, so I had the guys teach him some manners. Damn it... I think I jarred my fracture." Miranda’s gaze instantly snapped away from me, locking onto Bryce’s arm. She cupped his cast with trembling, panicked hands. "Why did you hit him yourself? That’s what the security detail is for!" Her voice trembled with distress. "The bone was finally setting! If you reset the fracture, I'll never forgive myself. Come on—back to the car. Right now." She linked her arm through his good side, guiding him away. From start to finish, her glance had flicked over the broken man on the ground as if I were nothing more than roadside trash. She didn't pause for a single second. In my arms, Luna’s feverish little hand reached out toward the retreating figure, her fingers clutching at the empty air. "Mommy..." she whispered into the wind. "Mommy, don't go..." The gusting highway wind and the chatter of the onlookers drowned out her fragile cry. My right eye was throbbing, swollen shut. Terrified of scaring her further, I buried my face into Luna’s small, burning neck. A heavy metallic click echoed on the pavement beside me. A high-end luxury watch lay in the dust. "My husband acts impulsively when he's stressed," Miranda’s voice drifted back, crisp and icy, as if speaking across a frozen tundra. "That watch will buy you ten of whatever cheap car you're driving." She didn't even turn around. "Whether you stole it or not, do not try to corner him again. You cannot afford the consequences." Her heels clicked against the asphalt, fading into the night. I forced myself up, carrying Luna into the travel plaza’s central operations office, and begged the clerk to use their landline. I punched in a number I knew by heart. "Adam?" My father’s deep voice carried an immediate note of concern. "Dad," I whispered, my throat raw. "I need your corporate legal team... I'm filing for divorce from Miranda." A heavy silence stretched across the line. My father didn't ask what happened. He didn't ask for explanations. "Done," he said quietly. Less than twenty minutes after hanging up, Luna’s little body suddenly stiffened. Her back arched. Her limbs locked into rigid tremors. Her lips turned a terrifying, dusky blue, and her skin felt like scalding iron. "Luna! Luna, look at Daddy!" I scooped her up and kicked through the door of the highway safety post. The on-duty medic took one look at her and his face drained of color. "Febrile seizure! Don't put anything in her mouth! Turn her on her side—clear the airway! Time the contractions!" He worked frantically over her, shouting over his shoulder to his partner: "Did dispatch confirm the ambulance?" "County EMS says the multi-car pileup five miles back has traffic locked down completely! Nothing is getting through for at least two hours!" "We can't treat this here!" the medic barked. "She's going into respiratory distress. What about that private medical transport van that was staging in the south lot?" "I'll go flag them down right now! Sir, get your ID and insurance papers together! Hurry!" I laid Luna down on the cot, my hands shaking uncontrollably as I looked at the attendant. "Please watch her. My car is twenty yards away. I'll grab my wallet and be right back. Please!" The man nodded urgently. I bolted out the doors, sprinting through the lot. I tore through the scattered debris in my car, shoved my documents and wallet into my pocket, and sprinted back. When I burst back into the safety post, the cot was empty. Luna was curled on the floor mats, shivering violently, entirely alone. "Where is everyone?!" I screamed into the hallway. "Where is the transport?!" The safety attendant jogged back in from the rear exit, his face pale with guilt. "I'm sorry... that lady... she said her husband re-fractured his arm and needed immediate orthopedic surgery. They took the van. They're loading up now..." I followed his pointing finger through the glass. Under the halogen lights of the perimeter curb, Miranda was carefully helping Bryce step into the back of the medical transport van. I grabbed the attendant by his collar. "We had that transport! My daughter is having a seizure! Why did you give it to them?!" "She... she offered the private crew a hundred and fifty thousand dollars in cash on the spot," he stammered, terrified. "The driver accepted the private contract." "I'll double it!" I roared, my sanity snapping. "I'll pay three times that! My daughter is dying!" "There's only one stretcher bay, sir! The ultrasound unit is bolted down in the back—there's no room for two! I'm trying to hail a state highway patrol cruiser, just wait—" "She doesn't have time!" I tore myself away and launched through the exit doors. My boot caught on a raised curb; I went down hard, the pavement tearing open my forehead. Blood washed into my eyes, blinding my vision. I didn't care. I scrambled back to my feet, dragging the back of my sleeve across my brow, and ran. Bryce was already halfway into the cabin, supported by Miranda’s arm. I lunged forward, grabbing Miranda’s coat with both hands. "Get out!" I choked out. "Get the hell out of that vehicle! My daughter needs that stretcher!" Miranda stiffened, turning to brush me off. At that exact moment, Bryce clutched his sling, letting out a sharp gasp of agony. "Miranda... the bone shifted. God, it hurts..." He peeked through his fingers, flashing me a faint, mocking smirk. "Look... let the kid have it. I'll just... I'll try to hold on..." It was an Oscar-worthy performance. I tried to push past him, but two of their private guards stepped up, locking their arms across my chest like iron bars. Miranda stepped between us, her eyes flashing with pure venom. "Lay one finger on him and I'll see you ruined!" she snapped, her voice like ice water down my neck. "Back off! My husband’s health is my only priority." She glared down at me, her words dripping with contempt: "If your child is frail, you shouldn't have dragged her out on a highway. If anything happens to her, that’s on you as a negligent father." She stepped into the van and slammed the door shut. Through the rear window, Bryce slid his uninjured arm around her waist, looking back at me with a triumphant, insolent grin. The guards held me in an iron grip. I fought. I kicked. I clawed at their coats until my nails tore. With the last breath left in my battered chest, I screamed at the tinted glass: "Miranda! That's Luna! That is our daughter!" The roar of the van’s diesel engine turned over. The siren whooped twice, clearing the crowd, and drowned my voice in a wave of acoustic white noise. The vehicle pulled away, its red taillights bleeding into the dark highway before disappearing entirely. My knees hit the dirt. The world spun into silence. "Mr... Mr. Dalton?" One of the guards who had held me suddenly froze. He stared down at my bloody face, his eyes widening in horror as the words clicked into place: "Miranda. Luna. Our daughter." His hands dropped from my arms as if he had touched live wire. I didn't waste a second looking at him. I scrambled up and ran back to the safety post. I scooped Luna’s limp, shuddering body into my arms. Barefoot, my socks soaked in road grime and blood, I ran out into the night toward the highway shoulder. "Help me!" I screamed at the passing cars crawling along the ramp. "Somebody call an ambulance! Save my baby girl!" In my arms, my little moon had stopped crying. Her eyes were rolled back, her breath a faint, irregular rattle, her tiny hands trembling in rhythm with a seizure that wouldn't stop. I held her against my chest and ran into the darkness. ... Miranda waited by the recovery bay at the private surgical center, letting out a long breath when the attending physician confirmed Bryce’s fracture had suffered zero displacement. Only then, sinking into an armchair in the waiting room, did she pull out her personal phone. The screen lit up with twenty-seven missed calls from the head of her personal security detail. The device had been switched to Do Not Disturb hours ago. Her brow furrowed. She dialed the number back. "What is it? Did you resolve the incident at the plaza?" "Mrs. Dalton!" the guard's voice broke over the receiver, frantic and trembling with terror. "Your daughter... your daughter was the child having seizures!" Miranda surged to her feet, the blood draining from her lips. "What are you talking about?! Luna is home with Adam!" "Ma'am... the sick little girl at the highway post was Luna! The man we dragged out of the car... the man Bryce punched... that was Mr. Dalton!" "He had a mask on... his face was covered in blood... we didn't realize until he screamed your name—"